Collision Course
by SpecialAgentZiva
Summary: Sherlock Holmes was obviously never meant to coexist in peace with anyone. He collided with everything, everyone. And Lestrade knew this. The boy was on a collision course and there were only so many chances to stop him before he hit a literal dead end.
1. The Kid

**A/N: I know there's quite a few of these but the idea of writing one was intriguing. This is the journey of Lestrade from the moment he unknowingly met Sherlock - the journey from then to present day. This is also Sherlock's journey through becoming who he is today and overcoming the drug and trust issues he had earlier in life. This story starts off when he was only 15 - don't be confused by it, it's not exactly present day. Do enjoy, I don't own Sherlock.**

**Please note: in this fic, Lestrade will know Sherlock for more than 5 years. However there will be a reason used to explain the whole "I've known him for 5 years and no, I don't" thing... hopefully. ;D**

"It was the husband."

The voice was a little bit hushed, the pitch deep, but undeniably belonging to a minor. He frowned lightly, playing with the stained phone cord. He vaguely wondered if this was the same person he'd been warned about, but, then again, he'd no experience with the kid himself. No one particularly knew or cared about the name, but somehow the youth had gotten himself known around Scotland Yard, and (strangely) not through charges. It was said that the boy often called during cases, providing clues that they would only bother with if they'd all hit a dead end. This had confused him at first: why would they listen to a kid at all? And, if the kid was right - just as they said he always was - then why not track him down?

"Excuse me, who's calling?" Lestrade rubbed a tired hand across his face. He was tired, to say the least, and it would only be best to play it safe. There was a high chance that this really was the boy and, if it was, his curiosity was too powerful to be left unquenched through badly chosen words. "What're you going on about, sir?"

"I _said_, it was the husband." He'd tried to start off the conversation casually, of course, and even added in a 'sir' as to make the boy feel more mature, but obviously this backfired. The voice only sounded annoyed and arrogant as it continued, "The newest case that you idiots at Scotland Yard can't crack. The one that appeared to be a suicide but turned out to be a murder. With the woman from Brixton. Her husband killed her."

Lestrade frowned a bit. He was getting sceptical over this kid. What business did he have calling this late, anyway? If anything, Lestrade was exhausted and rather hoping to go home soon. He'd only just started working in the major crimes unit and it was taxing to say the least. If THIS was what he'd have to put up with, then… well, he wasn't entirely sure how long he could last. Besides, the kid was making him feel like an idiot already, and none of it made sense. The husband had an airtight alibi, confirmed by his senile old mother. No one could possible force a senile, senior citizen to lie for them, could they?

"And how do you know this? I've heard about you… you're that kid, aren't you?" Lestrade dropped all attempts to be casual then and there. "You go around giving us clues and making fools of us, and you won't even tell me why."

"Well," the irritated voice replied, "if you'd let me explain, maybe I wouldn't make such a fool of you. But you've done that well by yourself. The old woman is lying, though she doesn't know it. She has no proper idea of time in her old age and forgot the exact time, but she does remember her son coming to visit her, so she supplied an alibi. She is in denial and doesn't want to believe her son might be a killer. Check the surveillance tapes at the nursing home, you'll find I'm quite right.

As for her husband being the killer, it's all in the house and on the body. There is blood in the sink. The woman's blood. Her husband claims she cut herself and the sink wasn't cleaned after she bandaged her hand. There's far too much blood down the drain to be from a cut as shallow as the one you found on her hand. However, the cut is present, I do realize. If you look closer, you'll discover it was made post-mortem in a way to cover up the husband's actions and-"

For a moment, the voice stopped, cut off by a rather loud bang. Startled, Lestrade nearly dropped the phone. His eyes widened, waiting for a few heartbeats for the voice to start talking again. Thankfully, it did, though the boy certainly wasn't talking about the case anymore, nor was he actually talking to him. "Mycroft! Put that down! That's an experiment! I need that! Mycroft, you awful-"

The line cut dead after that. Lestrade frowned and stared at the phone for a few moments before a tired sigh escaped him. He carefully replaced the phone and began typing out all of the information the boy had given him, happy when he'd finally finished typing. It took a good ten minutes to do so, but it was worth it. He could go home now. With a few final clicks, he sent the message to the Detective Inspector in charge and left for the night.

* * *

That was to be one of many encounters with the then-unknown boy. Somehow, the kid seemed to know when he was working and had a habit of calling late at night, even calling him by name sometimes. It got frustrating, it really did, and he would often get the urge to hang up. He even worried sometimes, worried about the kids' mentality. But what worried him most was silence.

He'd spent three years working with the boy, late at night, trying to understand the clues given to him. It wasn't to say they knew each other personally, the boy just seemed to prefer him. In fact, Lestrade didn't even have a clue as to what the name might be. But just past those three years, the year that he guessed that selfsame boy had turned eighteen, things suddenly became silent. For months he awaited another phone call, but none came. It drove him insane. Somehow he'd gotten attached to the kid in some way or maybe he just worried as a good detective was meant to.

Still, he managed to keep himself on track and advanced through the ranks quickly. He brushed away the silence as the boy finally finding a hobby. But this was soon to be proven wrong. It was about noon on April 5th and he was sifting through miles of paperwork, trying desperately to find something to do. No murders, no nothing. Nothing interesting, anyway.

And then a call came in. Something about a mentally unstable, very high man causing trouble in London. Oh, this sounded like a great way to rid himself of boredom, and Lestrade jumped at it in seconds, abandoning his desk. He responded to the call and found himself soon joined by two officers, one senior and one junior to him. They didn't look like a bad team at all, he thought. Surely they could handle some kid who'd gotten too high on the weekend and gone and wreaked a little bit of havoc.

The ride there was short, but it felt too long to him. Adrenaline was pumping through his veins. This was the part he liked. He was excited, though he would never admit it to the other cops. The trio exited the car nearly as fast as it parked, surprised to see the high man walking down the street, yelling something they couldn't understand. None of them recognized him. He looked like a regular junkie, maybe just turned eighteen, and he seemed absolutely insane at that moment.

"Stop where you are!" The senior officer yelled. Blackwood, Lestrade remembered vaguely, his name was Blackwood. But no matter his name, because the three of them were approaching at a remarkably fast speed and the stupid man didn't even seem to care. Hell, he didn't even turn around. Frowning, Blackwood tried again. "Stop right there!"

Still, he didn't turn around at all. They were very near to him now, perhaps only a few paces away, and the overly tall man had yet to turn around. Irritated now himself, Lestrade's hand twitched in the direction of his gun and he growled, "Stop. Now. Right where you are. For God's sake, you're running down the street high as a kite. Stop now, you're only making it worse for yourself."

The man suddenly stopped walking and whipped around. There was surprising clarity in those bright blue eyes, though he did bare quite a few signs of drug use. Obviously used needles, considering the marks on his exposed arms. He loomed over the officers, a disdainful look in his eye, but there was something else there. Recognition. Lestrade didn't understand it at all, and he had to stop himself from flinching under that gaze.

"No."

"Excuse me - what? Do you not realize you're being arrested?" the junior officer called, confused. He swiped a hand across his face, blinking. Obviously his first time dealing with a druggie.

"I'm not being arrested."

"Sure you are."

"Not."

"Yes."

"Not."

"Would you stop that?" Lestrade growled in exasperation. He sent a rather scorching gaze at the junior officer. When he refocussed not he man they were supposedly 'not' taking into custody, he found that recognition there again. There was something he couldn't place in that voice and in those words. It frustrated him, but he brushed it away in attempts to remain professional. "Both of you, just stop. Thank you. Now, hands behind your back."

"Not going to be arrested," the man said again, but he put his hands behind his back anyway. Just as Blackwood strode forward to arrest him, however, he turned rapidly. His hands flew in random directions, one smashing Lestrade in the face. Instant hate and anger flared through the police man, but, before he could reach out to grab this obviously very high man, he realized they were nearly alone. The only hint as to where that man had just gone was the swish of a black jacket as it swept around the corner. He moved to go after it, but Blackwood's arm quickly barred his way.

"Don't bother. He's always like that, we'll never catch him. Too fast."

And he had never wanted so badly to know someone's identity, but he didn't push it. Instead, he nodded and stood down, still staring at the spot that that frustratingly familiar man had stood just seconds before.


	2. Who Are You?

**A/N: Well, this is developing a little oddly. When I started writing this story I didn't imagine it going this way but... my writing seems to have a mind of its own. On that note, thanks to AssassinOfRome for the review, and thanks to all who have read. I must be tired, I honestly just typed "congratulations for the review..." Anyway, back to the point. I don't own Sherlock, and do enjoy this chapter.**

Three more months of complete silence followed the encounter with the rather odd druggie. Six months of silence from the kid that he'd grown used to, and it was hard not to wonder about him once and a while. What happened to the arrogant voice that loved to taunt him, loved to direct him, and loved that he listened? Still, he was forced to brush it aside. There were no missing persons cases related in any way to the boy - if there were, he was sure he'd know about it; he might not know the name, but things like that circulated the office quickly.

And then there was the junkie himself. For some reason, he couldn't get those ice blue eyes and raven curls out of his head. He couldn't shake the idea that he may just recognize this man. Badgering Blackwood, the senior officer that had taken the call with him, hadn't helped, either. No one seemed particularly keen on revealing the man's name, or perhaps they didn't know at all. This only increased his interest. Was there a connection between that odd man and the boy? The voice had sounded familiar… but he'd always thought the boy to be younger, shorter, less mature. Perhaps not. It wasn't as if he'd know for sure, he didn't expect to see or hear from either again.

How wrong he was.

On the morning of the six month anniversary (as he'd taken to inwardly calling it, despite how infinitely personal it sounded) Lestrade was lounging around in the break room. He leaned casually against the wall, a cup of hot coffee in his hand, and though he had no particular interest in conversing with anyone, he was quite interested in what the others had to say. Cases had poured in like wildfires and he was hoping it would entice the boy into calling again. An odd thought, considering how the others despised the kid, but maybe he was just different. More willing.

Thanks to these cases, words were also spreading at the same speed. He leaned against the wall simply to listen, eyes never lingering for long. Some words passed over him - why should he care that Rebecca Hart was cheating on anyone? - while others caught his attention for a few seconds. "Yes, and they think it was the cousin-" "All dead, four of them, looks like a group suicide-" "Another call for that damn junkie, anyone know his name?"

His heart stopped at the last sentence. Unconsciously, he leaned forward, intent on finding out the name. But, just as he got his hopes up, they were quickly dashed. "No, no one seems to get close enough to track him. Don't know what it is. Whenever we try to find him in the database, he's not there. Such an off kid, needs help, he really does."

Sighing, Lestrade exited the break room. He dropped his near-empty coffee cup into the garbage, hoping no one had noticed his hasty leave or his listening in. This might've been his only chance to track down the junkie - if anyone had known who he was. But how foolish was he, anyway? Of course the man had no certain identity, just another unidentified face in the crowd. Trouble was, this face kept getting stuck in his mind and it was driving him insane.

The earlier conversation played in his head over and over again all throughout the day. Every time the phone rang, he jumped for it, wondering if it was indeed going to be the boy. Each time he was wrong. It was a woman complaining of a lost ring or a boy who lost his bike, a man who committed road rage or an old, senile drunk driver (for a moment he contemplated this, wondering when old people suddenly decided they were far younger than they actually were). It was late at night, almost eleven o'clock, when he was about ready to call it quits. With a tired sigh, he rose from his chair and grabbed for his jacket.

Behind him, the phone rang insistently. He glared at it. After all day of waiting for the boy to call, surely he shouldn't hope now. And it wasn't as if he particularly cared, right? Maybe it was just worry over the wellbeing of the public due to this young man's mental state. The phone rang again and he glared at it more fiercely, but it didn't seem to want to stop. On the third ring, he growled in irritation and grabbed for it. His voice was quite unprofessionally harsh when he growled, "Scotland Yard, this is Lestrade."

"I know," the voice that answered back was strangely vulnerable. His heart nearly stopped at it.

Lestrade actually smiled a tiny bit to himself, dropping the irritation right then and there. He absentmindedly dropped his jacket as well, and sat back down in his chair. Something told him this conversation might be a bit different from their former ones. "Yes, I know you know. What's wrong, where've you been for the last six months?"

He sounded like a worried mother, an annoying relative, but he didn't mind. The voice surprisingly didn't get irritable or arrogant. He was shocked at this - he's gotten used to that I'm-better-than-you attitude. Still, not much was revealed. "Just been… around." An awkward silence, followed by, "Lestrade, what do you look like?"

"Uh…" he was caught off guard by this and frowned, trying to find a good way to describe himself. "Average height, I suppose, average build. Dark eyes. Dark brown, greying hair." He gulped at this point. It was horrible to admit his grey hairs, though they didn't look half bad on him. "Normally wear a dark jacket and a light shirt. Wait… why are you asking me this?"

"Never mind," the voice said quietly, but there was a new note to it. He frowned lightly. "Just curious is all. Well, good ni-"

"Don't hang up on me!" Lestrade protested quickly. "Look, I've had six months of complete silence from you. Before that, you badgered me nearly every night. Where've you been? And, if you can't answer that, who are you?"

"I'm no one. No one important, not yet."

"Helpful," he whispered sarcastically.

"And I've run into a bit of trouble is all. Nothing Mycroft can't fix… if he'd only get those cameras off me, though…"

"Cameras? What, are you being watched by the government?"

"You could say that."

"Are you on a wanted list? Oh my God, have I been sharing investigation details with a criminal?" The note of panic in his voice was evident. After all, he'd worked hard to get to where he was - not without the boy's assistance, of course. Conversing with an outsider wasn't strictly allowed. Actually, in truth, he had no idea over whether or not it was in the books or not. Might be. Probably was. But either way, an outsider wasn't as bad as a damn criminal.

"God, no," the boy sounded a touch amused. "My brother is the British government. He likes to keep track on me. Keep me… out of trouble… not that it's helped lately."

"Are you alright, then?" He could breathe again.

"I suppose so. If sitting in a telephone booth talking to you is alright, because I really have nowhere to go at the moment."

"You could bunk with me, I suppose," Lestrade hesitated for a moment. "Though I'm sure you know where I live already, then? No address needed."

"Not sure that's a good idea, but thank you for the proposition." A few seconds of silence followed before muffled sounds were heard and the phone line cut dead. Frustrated, Lestrade put the phone back in its holder and leaned his head on the desk. He fell asleep this way, head buried in arms on the cold, hard desk.

Many hours later, around ten o'clock the next morning, he started into consciousness. His breathing was relatively fast and fear lingered on the edge of his mind but he couldn't place it. Nightmare, perhaps? One he'd forgotten instantaneously? It was possible, wasn't it? Well, he wasn't exactly a scientist on these things; he had no claim on understanding them. But there was one thing he did understand quite well: it was Saturday. One of the few days he had off.

Grinning, the man made his way to his flat, just a short walk and taxi ride down from Scotland Yard. Once there, he bounded up the steps, eager to be home for the day. Rest and relaxation sounded perfect just at that moment. However, he was shocked to find his front door unlocked, and pulled his gun from its holster immediately. He entered with caution, lightly shutting the door behind him. At first, the flat seemed deserted, barely disturbed at all, and then his eye caught on a flash of white. A small piece of paper was taped to the couch. Frowning, he made his way over to it.

By this small piece of paper was a rather large, dark blue scarf. He stared at it for a moment. It seemed to have a connection somehow, a connection between the boy and the high man, but he couldn't place it completely. Frustrated, (and completely forgetting his plans for relaxation) he scanned the note quickly. In untidy, capitalized letters, it read:

"LESTRADE,

THOUGHT I'D TAKE YOU UP ON YOUR OFFER. RATHER NICE COUCH. THANK YOU, BUT I CAN'T STAY.

-SH"

As he read this, Lestrade's eyes grew wide. So the boy had been here after all. He considered dusting for fingerprints but that just might be an invasion of his own privacy. Still, he wanted to know the boy's identity, to find him, to understand him. He was a step closer now, wasn't he? SH. That had to be something. Initials or a nickname. Either way, it was something. And the boy had left the scarf. Accidentally or not, it meant he'd have to return.

And Lestrade would be right there waiting for him to do just that. Grinning, the man flung himself onto the couch and turned on the TV, ready for a few hours of mindless telly-watching.


	3. Not Coming Back

**A/N: I have a question for you guys today. Odd, isn't it? You don't need to answer this, of course, but I think I might just be putting in a voluntary question per chapter… but anyway, the question is: when you watched A Study In Pink for the first time, what was your first reaction to Sherlock when he opened up the body bag? My answer will be way at the bottom so you can start reading now. I don't own Sherlock, and please enjoy!**

**(Thanks to all who've reviewed and read so far.)**

Oddly enough, the kid - SH - never showed up. If he did, he didn't come back and reclaim his scarf. Once again, he vanished off the face of the Earth and left a very confused Lestrade behind. This time, however, he didn't stay 'vanished' for quite so long. Every so often a note would be left somewhere in Lestrade's flat - more often the couch than anything, but only on days he wasn't home and nights he'd fallen asleep at the office. After every note would be a period of time, up to two weeks, in which there would be no trace.

The notes seemed to be the boy's choice way of communicating now. Forget calling Scotland Yard - he'd stopped doing that. Lestrade briefly wondered if this had anything to do with the 'Mycroft' he'd heard mentioned, and the cameras, but he didn't have much of a chance to ask. He'd had the idea of leaving a note himself once or twice but both the boy's schedule and his own were so odd that there was no way of predicting when either would be at his flat. Still, he had to do something, didn't he?

Two months after the boy had called and stayed at his flat, Lestrade paused on his way out the door. He quickly read over the newest note left for him, a rather cheery one stating that 'I MIGHT BE BACK LATER. THANKS AGAIN. P.S. IT WAS THE WIFE. -SH' It was a bit frustrating, really, because he couldn't just walk into work and say it was the wife. He knew better than that, the same as he knew better than to second-guess the boy. That morning, however, one part stuck in his mind. 'I MIGHT BE BACK LATER.' This was a chance of a lifetime, wasn't it?

Ripping a piece of paper off a random notepad, and grabbing for a very beat-up pen, Lestrade carefully wrote his own note. A tiny part of him was unnerved by this sharing of a flat without having actually met the other person, and that tiny part felt as though this might extinguish its discomfort. So, without much thought to it, he scrawled 'I LEFT YOUR SCARF ON THE TABLE… AGAIN. WHY DID THE WIFE DO IT? AND WHO ARE YOU, SH?' He didn't bother signing his name. Wifeless, childless, and flatmate-less (besides SH), there wasn't much need to sign anything.

He left for work as normal. The day was infinitely slow, spent combing through the newest case. A man had been found dead off a highway in Brixton. He hadn't had any identification or any real signs of trauma - at first. When they looked closer, tiny marks could be seen up and down those arms. Lestrade had shuddered at this - it reminded him too much of that tall, mysterious, high man that had run from him. It had been determined that he was a drug user, but drugs hadn't led to his demise. A poison had entered his system, likely mixed up in the needles. It was a beautiful plot, really. They could easily rule it a suicide, but the boy's note kept his attention focussed on it all day. By the time he trudged home, weak and weary, he was well aware that he hadn't accomplished anything.

Lestrade had wanted to collapse into his couch again, but his energy was restored a bit at the sight of a folded piece of paper, taped pristinely next to the one he'd left. He grinned like a madman and grabbed for it. Untidy handwriting met him again, and, when he glanced up, he realized the scarf was now perched perfectly on the couch. Instinctively, he reached for it, threading it around his arms before resuming reading. For once, the words were not capitalized. It bugged him at first but he brushed it off.

'Thank you for leaving my scarf however it does seem to make this place far more… homey, I suppose. As I told you before, my identity is not important. You work for Scotland Yard, you could easily trace me and I'd rather you didn't do that. But the point is, the wife is the only one who had access to the man's needles. She was a drug addict as well. If you'll look closely, you'll find drops of poison in her own needles. She planned to kill herself, not him, but he grabbed the wrong needle. He is addicted to one substance, she to the other. You will find this if you search, and the substance within should prove the needle as the wife's. Surprisingly they did not mix their drugs, like some people I happen to know. Others are smarter than that.'

He stared at this. Others? Was there a possibility that the boy was a drug addict himself? Frowning, he flipped it over, to find the words 'I won't be coming back -SH' scribbled on the back. Questions flashed through his mind at the speed of light the moment he read these words. Why? Where was the boy to go? Would he be alright? On the upside… well, he didn't have any reason to worry about strangers in his flat again, invited or not.

"Good bye," he whispered. Sighing, the now very much exhausted man leaned his head back and closed his eyes slowly. He drifted off to sleep like this, scarf wrapped around arms, note clutched tightly in hands. Something told him he wouldn't be hearing from the boy in quite a long time. It was time for another disappearing act, and he felt strangely disappointed at the thought.

* * *

Four years and three months.

That was about how long he'd sort of known the mysterious boy who had constantly evaded him. It wasn't as if he obsessively counted the days. Over the five months of silence, he hadn't really bothered too much with thinking of him. After all, the kid was bound to show up again eventually, wasn't he? And Lestrade would be right there waiting, ready to have SH's true identity revealed to him. He'd actually even tried waving the initials around at work, asking if anyone knew a person with those initials, but the search had led him to a dead end.

So he'd stopped thinking about it. He'd concentrated more and more on his work and actually found things a tiny bit easier now that he knew some of the boy's tricks. Of course, he'd never come even close in intellect or deductive powers, but he liked to think he wasn't a complete waste in his career. He'd put himself more and more into his work and was doing quite nicely. Lined up for a promotion of his own soon, too. Detective Inspector Lestrade, perhaps? He liked the ring of it.

Some time in the midst of that three months part of the four years, things were becoming slow again. Naturally, he was beginning to get bored and grasped for whatever was called in. Even on lunch breaks he'd go out of his way to take a call - the same way that he was doing that very same day. Someone was calling in a murder in Brixton (God, another one?) and requested a team to be sent out. Lestrade, of course, jumped for the chance immediately, and was in a taxi within seconds. He could join whoever else made up the team that day.

There was nothing particularly odd about the murder. It was a murder, through and through, though there were no obvious suspects. He spent his time immersed in the work, studying everything and thinking over all of the possibilities that jumped at him. After two hours it became clear that he was no longer needed and he slowly made his way out of the building to be greeted by a shouting match. At first, he froze, and then he was off running towards it, hand itching to grab his firearm.

He nearly stopped dead as things registered. Another officer was arguing rather irritably with an insanely tall man. The man was young, hardly more than a boy, but unmistakably sure of himself. He spoke in a familiar deep voice, one that stirred memories of _the_ boy - SH. And he was talking fast, saying something about the killer and the nail polish on the girl's cheek. He seemed to be trying to force his way in and was yelling back at the police officer, the pair arguing fiercely over whether or not he could be stopped if he wanted to go in.

"Excuse me, what's the problem?" Lestrade asked casually, trying not to stare too intensely at the man. He knew this man. It had only been just over a year ago that he'd originally dealt with this junkie, and his image had lingered with him since. And then there was the voice that matched so perfectly to the one he'd heard countless times, but he couldn't let himself hope or think. Especially since this was an obvious drug addict, and one who was likely not clean at that very moment. His eyes, red and puffy, were strangely the only things that gave him away. His arms were covered this time, no needle marks visible.

"This idiot will not let me through," the man growled at him, eyes flashing. He seemed to stop as well, frowning for a moment before his face returned back to neutral.

"And who are you, sir?"

"That's not important, not at all."

"Well, you're at a crime scene. And you're high. So I do think it is."

"How do you know that? I cover the symptoms well."

"Obviously not today. You have a choice. You can accompany me to a police car or you can share your identity."

"Either way I'll end up in a police car."

"Yes," there was no point lying, was there?

"But my brother will get rid of the charges."

The arrogant way he said it made Lestrade's eyes widen again. He frowned deeply before blurting out, "Mycroft?"

The high man's eyes widened as much as his did, and he seemed genuinely startled. Using this moment to his advantage, Lestrade whipped the cuffs from his belt and clamped one tightly on a pale wrist. Anger flashed through the other man's eyes but he ignored it, pulling the arms behind his back and clamping the other cuff on. Surprisingly, he wasn't met with too much resistance.

Then again, getting him to the police car… that was another thing altogether.

Getting him there wasn't bad at all, but trying to force those long limbs into the car proved to be difficult. While he wasn't resisting, he wasn't exactly giving in, and it was irritating. It took ten minutes longer, and far too many curses, before Lestrade actually forced the man into the car, and by then both were glaring and irritated.

"Identity?" he growled. "And don't tell me it's not important. I can easily take your wallet out, so do me a favour and tell me."

Hesitation. And then…

"Sherlock Holmes."

And suddenly it all clicked together.

**A/N: In answer to my own question… My reaction was 'Oh God… tell me that's not Sherlock Holmes.' Hehe. Well, I got used to him after a few minutes, but… anyway, what about you all?**


	4. Deja Vu

**A/N: Thanks to all who've read and reviewed, I appreciate you all. I do have another question for this chapter. Which Sherlock character to you consider the easiest to write for, and which do you consider the hardest? This is all from your point of view, of course, as we all write differently. I'd love to know your guys' answers to this, but obviously it's up to you. Anyway, chapter 4 for you all. :) I finished writing the story last night… there's only a few more chapters to go.**

**So please enjoy and remember I don't own Sherlock.**

"Sh-Sherlock Holmes."

He repeated the name dumbly, staring in shock. All thoughts of professionalism dropped then and there because right in front of him was the puzzle he couldn't solve, the disappearing man who was nothing more than whispers on a breeze, initials on paper. It all connected perfectly in his mind. The boy, the druggie, the notes, the initials, and now the crime scene. It fit. And frankly it shocked him. From the conversations he'd had with this man, he'd never really imagined him to be over the age 18, constantly referring to him as 'the boy' in his mind. Their conversations seemed to have surprising clarity. Surely a drug addict couldn't have been the one talking to him.

But damn, it just all fit so perfectly. A rather arrogant grin broke across Sherlock's face. He studied Lestrade, watching as things clicked within the man's mind. Now this was entertainment. He'd come to the crime scene because he was bored, hoping to infuriate another police officer by making them into some sort of fool, but this… this was priceless. With a lazy wave of his hand (which he quickly found hurt, considering his hands were handcuffed together), he responded, "Yes. Sherlock Holmes. You can check my ID if you want, but you won't find any different."

"Sherlock Holmes," he repeated again. Sherlock frowned, wordlessly commenting on his idiocy with just a look. A heartbeat passed between them, tension-filled, as Lestrade desperately searched for something intelligent to say. "You're the kid, aren't you?"

"Kid?" Sherlock looked rather insulted by this. He lifted his hands to cross his arms before remembering the cuffs again and dropped his hands back into his lap with a huff. Obviously he wasn't used to be arrested - and even more obviously he didn't expect to be charged with anything. How arrogant. "I'd hardly call myself a kid…"

"You're, what, nineteen?" Lestrade had to force back a small grin at the startled look he'd earned from the boy. "Oh, don't look so surprised, you started calling me when you were fifteen. You stopped when you turned eighteen and called me six months after that. You then started taking refuge in my house for about two months, left me notes, and then vanished almost completely. You said you weren't coming back."

Sherlock hummed noncommittally, interested in knowing the thought trail that had led him there. He threaded those long, pale fingers together and stared straight back at Lestrade, daring the other man to speak. When no more words came, he rolled his eyes and nodded. "Brilliant, you've finally figured me out. Surprised you didn't on that drug call."

"Are-are you high right now?" Mentally, he slapped himself for not asking this question before.

"Not overly."

"Uh… good, I suppose, but… you're still a bit high, I can see it. Obviously you function well. Why are you here?"

"Bored."

"Ah… what?"

"Bored, I said. Clean your ears, you're making a fool of yourself."

Well. THIS definitely sounded like the boy he'd spent three years listening to on the phone. "Right, thanks, but why are you here?"

"It's more interesting than my flat, and Mycroft likes to come looking for me. Would rather be around Scotland Yard-"

"Are you being followed? Do you need protection detail? I… I could arrange that… special case you know."

Sherlock snorted and the snort turned into a full-on laugh. He laughed quite loudly and arrogantly for a full fifteen seconds before the laughter died into near silence and then disappeared completely. "God, no. Mycroft is basically the British government, he's not going to kill me. Well… I hope."

"You are damn arrogant, you know that?" Lestrade frowned, leaning on the open door of the police cruiser. Sherlock hummed again. He was getting multiple stares from other officers, quite a few of them loudly remarking on his taking his time, but he ignored them. This was somehow more important than the dead body or the clues or any of it. "So you're telling me you came here because you were bored? To do what? Argue with the officers? Solve the case?"

"Basically."

"Look, I have to go, and you have to go to the station," Lestrade moved to close the door, only to find his way blocked by a rather long, pale leg. Sherlock didn't even grimace as the car door smashed into him - odd, those doors were heavy and tended to hurt quite a bit.

"No, I'm not."

"Yes, you are."

"No, I'm not."

"Yes, you are." 'Deja vu much?' he wondered. Well, if this was going to be the same as the first situation… he may as well just give up now, because Sherlock was about to do a runner. Still, it would look bad if he didn't try at all. He put a hand on the man's leg and tried to force it into the car, but Sherlock responded by kicking out, striking the door and propelling it backwards into Lestrade, who hit the dirt rather hard. He lay on the ground for a few moments, unsurprised to see that, when he looked up, he was alone.

Sherlock had fled, again. Another disappearing act by the great SH, but this time he had an identity. He knew the name and the appearance and all of it.

And damn did it make him feel powerful.

* * *

The next day was spent focussed almost completely on Sherlock. He pretended as though it was part of an investigation, spinning off an elaborate web of half-lies whenever he was asked of what he was doing. Once again, the boy - man - was stuck in his mind. Curiosity had taken hold of him and the only way to quench it was through research. He wanted to know - had to know - about the kid.

But when he typed the name into the database, things became exceedingly slow, taking what seemed to be hours to load. He wanted to hit the computer in hopes that it might help, though he knew it wouldn't do a thing. Why was the world so insistent in keeping Sherlock's identity away from him? What was so important in those raven curls, those bright blue eyes, those well-tailored suits and biting words? And why had no one else ever gotten close to him?

Why was he the first to know the name?

The questions bombarded him constantly, and the system was now just frustrating him. He smashed a frustrated hand onto the keyboard, mashing random buttons down, but nothing happened at all. This was getting annoying, he was exhausted, and he shouldn't have to deal with such a stupidly slow database. He vaguely wondered if there was a reason the database slowed when he looked up Sherlock. No one else had ever found the kid… what if they'd simply gotten tired of the slowness and gave up? Did that mean Sherlock was simply hidden behind walls of code but nevertheless accessible?

This gave him a bit of new hope and renewed his energy a tiny bit. For the next hour, Lestrade busied himself around his cramped office, constantly checking his computer screen. As he reached the end of the hour, a small beep came from the computer in question and he rushed over to it, dropping the papers he'd been carrying. Oh well, that could be tidied later. But he'd found him, hadn't he? He'd found Sherlock.

Eagerly, he moved the mouse as to get rid of the screensaver. He was grinning like a madman, a complete and utter maniac but this smile fell all of a sudden. In bold, taunting letters across the screen, the computer informed him:

"NO SEARCH RESULTS FOR SHERLOCK HOLMES"

How was that possible? It didn't make sense at all! This was a druggie they were talking about, a nuisance to Scotland Yard basically since the kid could walk! How could he not be on file anywhere? And what of the brother in the government? Could he - Mycroft - have done this? Frustrated, Lestrade flicked the mouse away and put his head on the desk a little too hard, head rebounding once before staying on the hard surface.

He'd spent all day. For this. Absolutely nothing. He should've known, really. Who was he to think he'd finally get close to Sherlock? Who was he to think he was actually meant to? Honestly, he should just give up. If the kid came back to his flat and left another note, he'd make it clear that no more visits would welcome. And the boy could live on the streets where he belonged, perfectly at home with the others of his kind. Junkies with marks up their arms from the countless needle injections and the red, puffy eyes. None would match Sherlock's intellect, perhaps, but at least he'd be at home.

Lestrade fell into a frustrated sleep, the day's exhaustion finally taking over him. He seemed to have made a habit of sleeping at his desk lately, especially on days that had been spent somehow concerning Sherlock. It wasn't long before he was dreaming, his body still and looking peaceful to the outside world, but inside told a different story.

_"Why do you keep running from me?"_

_He was screaming those words at an ever-familiar black figure as it receded in the distance. It could have been anyone, really, if not for the coat that swept behind him. The figure hesitated for a moment, and then turned around slowly. Only vague rays of light were cast across his face, illuminating even paler skin. It was actually frightening, the whitish tinge of the boy's skin. His blue-grey eyes were red-rimmed and somehow he didn't look as arrogant or strong as he constantly made himself out to be._

_"Why do you keep running?" he screamed again. "Why can't you wait?"_

_Sherlock opened his mouth as if he might say something, but a thin stream of blood flowed out of his mouth and he stumbled forward. His eyes widened in shock before he collided with the pavement, a loud crack echoing throughout the street as his made contact. His eyes slipped close and he stopped moving completely, save for the rise and fall of his chest. Panic gripped Lestrade, and he raced forward to meet the boy, but, every time he grew close, Sherlock's body seemed to get farther and farther away._

_"Sherlock!"_

**A/N: I personally find Sherlock extremely easy to write for and keep at least semi in character. Mycroft is another story...**


	5. Any Sign Of Life

**A/N: Wow, thanks to all of you who reviewed (and read, of course). :) I appreciate all of your comments. I'm honestly trying to think of a question for this chapter but I'm drawing a blank - probably because I just woke up. But either way, please enjoy this chapter… there's only one more to go! Never fear, after this I will be posting a sort of companion story to it based around Sherlock and Mycroft. Shameless advertising. Fun, isn't it?**

**I don't own Sherlock.**

"_Sherlock_!"

Lestrade jolted awake to find himself actually screaming the name. He was breathing hard, eyes wide. The fear and panic stayed with him, screaming at him to go check on the boy. But how? How did he find someone who disappeared so easily? He ran a tired hand over his face and got to his feet, staring around the near empty office. What time was it, anyway?

He discovered it to be nearly 2 in the morning. This only added to his panic. He grabbed for his jacket and slipped it over his head in a very rushed manor, acutely aware of the darkness outside. Somehow this felt instrumental. It mirrored his dream almost exactly - the darkness of the night sky outside the window, the faint rays of light from working street lamps. And somewhere, amongst it all, was Sherlock. But where?

If his office wasn't nearly so high off the ground, he might've jumped out the window onto the street below, but, from up here, he'd surely die. Instead, he rushed off towards the elevators, stuffing his gun into his belt as he went. All the way through the elevator ride he tried to convince himself that it truly was a dream and nothing had happened but the fear remained, gnawing at the back of his mind. He felt uneasy, the knowledge that something truly wasn't right stirring this emotions within. And there was a sense of time pushing him on as he raced out of the building, dark eyes searching the immediate area for something, anything.

Any sign of life. Any sign of Sherlock. Because if he could see him, then he'd know the kid was alright.

But there was nothing. Nothing at all but the darkness and the parked cars and the occasional cab. Crying out in frustration, he took to racing down the block in the general direction of his flat. His eyes scanned every back alley that he didn't take and scrutinized the ones that he did, but there was nothing. Absolutely nothing. He was beginning to feel like a fool, worrying over nothing, when a crash sounded to his left. Startled, he turned, expecting a rather nasty car crash. Instead, he was met with the sight of a fleeing man.

That fleeing man was soon joined by another. The second figure was so familiar he almost fell over. It was like straight out of his dream, with the new obvious development: the other man. Sherlock was racing after that man like his life depended on it, growing farther and farther away from Lestrade with each breath. Panicked by the thought, Lestrade took off after him, though he kept his pace slower as not to alert anyone of his presence. He rounded a corner and skidded to a stop, completely out of breath. His eyes moved to the pavement. When he looked up again, there was only one figure. Sherlock's.

The boy was looking in every direction but his. Remembering his dream, Lestrade sucked in a deep breath and yelled after him, "Sherlock! Why do you keep disappearing? Why do you keep running from me?"

Sherlock froze, his darkened figure seeming to tense at his words. And ever-so-slowly he turned, pale face catching light from a stray street lamp. It was eery. If the dream had looked bad… this was so much worse. The light highlighted purple bags under the boy's puffy, red eyes. His skin was deathly pale, and he actually seemed vulnerable. The sight shot fear through Lestrade, who continued to scream after him, "Why do you keep running from me? Why can't you wait?"

Well, his dream was a tiny bit different… maybe it wouldn't end the same way. Taking a few steps closer, he was relieved to find Sherlock wasn't magically moving backwards. He allowed himself a half smile at the realization that the boy wasn't running. Sherlock opened his mouth to answer, but he was stopped by a cry of pain. He even looked startled at his own voice. Blood began to slowly trickle out of the corner of his mouth and he crumpled, eyes wide.

Lestrade knew what would happen next and it absolutely terrified him. He took off running, watching as the boy's head struck hard pavement and the lights went out in his mind. A shadow flickered behind Sherlock's body and it was gone in an instant, but Lestrade had seen it. He wanted to raise his gun and fire, but the shadow was gone now, leaving only Sherlock's crumpled body in the alley with him. The realization that an ambulance would be needed hit him just then and he scrambled to dial the number while he ran, barely holding it to his ear as he yelled, "Need an ambulance!"

"Sir, can you give me your address-"

"No idea!" At least he was honest. "Just get here. This boy does NOT look good."

"Tracing your call, please remain on the line."

Growling, Lestrade flung the phone down beside Sherlock's body. Miraculously it didn't break. He dropped to his knees and inspected Sherlock, eyes taking in everything. At first, nothing was off. And then he noticed the dampness of that long, dark coat, and he panicked. Blood. Oh, God, the boy had been stabbed or shot or something and he was going to die if the paramedics didn't get there soon. Faced with no other option, Lestrade ripped his coat off himself and pushed it onto the badly bleeding wound.

Thank God the kid was out of it, or he'd be screaming in pain. Even someone like Sherlock, the arrogant and worrisome sod, couldn't handle pain like this. Or could he? Now that he could admit it to himself, it wasn't as if they really knew one another at all. All he had to go on was the phone conversations, notes, and two times they'd met - one unknowingly, no less. It wasn't much to go on for a character judgement.

Shaking his head, he realized he was rambling on in his panicked state and he forced himself to concentrate more on the boy than anything. He wasn't sure how long had passed by the time the wail of an ambulance reached his ears and tires skidded to a halt not far down the alley. Paramedics streamed out, taking Sherlock from his hands, and he was actually reluctant to let go. But he had to, he knew. He'd been in this situation thousands of times, seen others in it just as much.

Holding on was sometimes more dangerous than letting go.

* * *

"Yes, sir, I understand. Yes, I will be back tomorrow. I have a situation here that I will report tomorrow. Until then… Yes, sir. Yes."

It was barely six in the morning and he hadn't slept a second of the four hours Sherlock had been in the hospital. Eventually he'd remembered that he did, in fact, have work that day and had called the Detective Inspector in charge, explaining the situation as best as he could without going into too much detail. He'd been the first one to ever really get this close to Sherlock and the man's identity - something stopped him from revealing the incident from earlier that morning. He wanted to make sure the world knew exactly how hard it was to track down the man and just what a feat it had been to do so.

Most people would be turned away at the hospital, asked to go home at this point. He wasn't of any relation to Sherlock. They looked nothing alike - he couldn't pretend they were brothers, too much of an age gap, anyway. Father was out of the question. Once again, they looked nothing alike, and the age gap was too small to pass for a father. Thankfully, however, none of this proved to be a problem as he might've thought it would. A flash of his badge (how useful) and he was suddenly in the loop, updated when he wanted to be.

So far not much had changed. They'd stabilized Sherlock. He'd taken a deep knife wound to his back, but thankfully it had missed any vital organs. He'd gained a concussion upon hitting the pavement. Unfortunately, he was still unconscious from both the concussion and anaesthetic used during surgery to stitch up his back. Obviously he'd been using drugs at the time of he'd been stabbed - they'd gotten most of the cocaine out of his system but it had made things dangerous. Still, the boy was alive, and that was all Lestrade cared about.

"Stupid sod," he had muttered upon receiving the news. That had been almost an hour ago. Now he stood in the waiting room, staring at seriously unexciting white walls. There wasn't much to do until the nurses allowed him into Sherlock's room. It couldn't be long, he decided, considering he'd been there for about four hours. He was beginning to tire, his mind exhausted from the events of that morning and bored by the tedium of the hospital. Putting the two together was a dangerous mix that would likely result in him passed out in the waiting room.

A few more minutes passed and his eyes began slipping shut. In effort to stay awake, he pulled himself away from the wall and approached the same nurse that had been updating him. She looked surprised to see him, even frowned a bit, but he ignored this. He had to go see Sherlock, whether he was awake or not. At least if he fell asleep then, he'd be in a stupid little chair and in a private room rather than a very public area. "Ah, hello, Nurse Amsden. Any updates on the boy?"

She looked a bit confused when he said 'the boy.' Well, it made sense, he decided. She was far younger than him, and surely she hadn't known Sherlock as a youth. Lestrade was over ten years the boy's senior (he didn't exactly fancy calculating the exact difference in age) and, having met him when he was just fifteen, it was natural to say 'the boy' or 'the kid.' Then again, he thought, he may want to start saying 'the man' or just Sherlock from then on - save himself the odd stares. That would be nice.

"Still sleeping, still stable," the Nurse replied with a tired shrug. "You should be able to go in now if you want, he's been moved and cleaned up. Room 204, just down the hallway to your left. Don't wake him if you can."

"That won't be a problem," Lestrade smiled in his gratitude and took off down the hallway. The passing numbers all seemed to blur together, all except 204. He stopped outside of the room and waited a few moments. Knowing Sherlock, the boy might just be awake. The short few months in which Sherlock would stop by his flat (while he was out, of course) proved erratic sleeping patterns. It was quite possible he was awake at that moment. With this in mind, he lifted his hand to the doorknob and turned it slowly.

The door swung silently inwards. He stepped inside, surveying the too-clean room. White walls, whirring and beeping machinery - basically the stereotypical hospital. The only thing that didn't seem to fit was Sherlock. Lestrade closed the door behind him and leaned to take a better look. Sherlock's face had gained some of its color back, but he was still nearly as pale as the sheets engulfing him. With his blue eyes closed, the intensity was lost and replaced by something far more vulnerable. Add this with the machinery around him and IV in his arm and he might've seemed harmless.

Then again, Lestrade knew better. Sighing, he thunked himself down in a cheap plastic chair stationed by the bed. It wasn't as if many people were going to come visit, were they? He may as well take advantage of the semi-comfortableness. The room faded into near silence, the only noise being the quiet beeping of machines that nearly masked the sounds of Sherlock's breathing. If not for the rise and fall of his chest, he might've looked dead.

Lestrade began to doze off himself, eyes closing slowly. He was leaned forward in the chair, arms folded on the bed and head resting on those selfsame arms. It looked odd, yes, but he was exhausted and didn't expect for Sherlock to wake up any time soon. If that had been the boy's plan, he would've been up already, wouldn't he? So, with a small smile on his face, he let his eyes close completely and allowed his mind to wander.

Just as unconsciousness reached for him, ready to take him to the land of sleep that he'd been craving, a voice broke into his thoughts and startled him.

"Well, that's a rather odd position to be in. I'd think you were worried about me."

A silence followed, in which Lestrade opened his eyes, shocked to see the raven-haired man grinning at him. Sherlock's blue eyes took in the room around him and his smile dropped into a frown.

"Damn. Not here again. I really hate hospitals."

**A/N: Is Lestrade psychic? Or is this mere coincidence, a one-time thing? I'll leave that up to you to decide…**


	6. Averting Future Collisions

**A/N: Thanks to all of you who've read and reviewed this. :) This is the last chapter, guys. It should clear up quite a bit (including "why did Lestrade say 5 years if Sherlock started calling when he was 15?") and I hope you enjoy it. I'll start posting its companion fic tomorrow, if anyone's interested, though that one is so far unnamed. Anyway, please enjoy!**

**I don't own Sherlock.**

"How can you hate hospitals?"

Even as the words left his mouth he realized how stupid they were. No one really liked hospitals, did they? Every wall, every window, every room screamed death and injury. These were buildings filled with protocols that got in the way of love, tight-lipped doctors barely holding up under the pressure, dead, dying, and injured people as well as the worst of all: desperately crying people waiting for loved ones that were never going to be seen again. There were the few happy things about hospitals as well: the gift shops and the people who actually were managing to heal. But besides that… well, Lestrade could sympathize with Sherlock.

"They're boring," Sherlock shrugged at him. Lestrade rolled his eyes. He should've expected this. Of course the kid wasn't going to hate hospitals because of all the heartbreaking, practical reasons. This was a person who'd spent his spare time phoning Scotland Yard and getting high just to keep himself entertained. While most people had a hobby of some sort - fishing, painting, hiking, anything like that - Sherlock preferred to make fools of people and solve crimes. So of course he should've expected an answer like 'they're boring,' because they truly must be to a mind like his.

"It's the same thing, always. So mundane. Everything from the walls to the food are protocol this, protocol that. Everything's on a set schedule. I can't stand it," Sherlock shook his head slowly but stopped at the pain from the concussion he'd forgotten. "Don't stay here for long though."

"What, do you magically get better? Or maybe you charm the nurses into letting you out?" Lestrade asked sarcastically. Sherlock shot him a look that said 'you're a complete and utter idiot' before it struck him. He frowned. "You can't be serious. You… you break out, don't you?"

Sherlock grinned at him, pale hands coming together under his chin. He looked positively pleased with himself, and perhaps a little bit impressed that Lestrade had put everything together. "Of course. It's boring here, so why would I stay?"

"Maybe because you're injured? I mean, really, I hope you're not planning to break out this time."

"And why not?"

"Look at you! You have a concussion, Sherlock. A concussion and a stab wound to the back. You're lucky to be alive, you know that?"

Dark eyes locked on blue, each one determined to force the other into submission. Unfortunately, both possessed quite strong willpower and the room lapsed into silence. The kid was insane, Lestrade decided, absolutely crazy. What kind of person broke out of hospitals because they were bored? Yes, he'd spent enough time in the hospital to have considered breaking out, but he'd never gone through with it. That was just foolish. Sherlock, the arrogant sod, thought he could pull it off and do well from then on. Probably use drugs again to stop the pain.

Finally, Lestrade shook his head and rolled his eyes. He reached out slowly, grabbing Sherlock's wrist in a firm but not overly threatening way. This brought him back to the kid's attention immediately. Smiling mockingly, he declared, "You're not leaving the hospital. Don't even think about it."

"I can if I want to!" Sherlock glared, his gaze positively shooting daggers, but it didn't bother Lestrade in the least. He'd spent enough time dealing with criminals to know better. Reacting to curses and glares would never solve a thing. "You can't keep me here."

"What are you going to do? Send your brother after me? Honestly, Sherlock, look at yourself. You've lost a lot of blood, you're in no state to go anywhere."

"I've been in worse condition and left the hospital," the way he shrugged off Lestrade's comments was positively infuriating. "It's… uh… good that you care and all. Really, nice for you, but I have things to do."

"Like what? Last time I checked you're a nineteen-year-old junkie with no damn future. You're going nowhere and you know it!" Lestrade had had enough. He was glaring right back now, completely forgetting that he was supposed to be ignoring Sherlock's irritating glares and words. Sherlock looked genuinely shocked at this, blue eyes wide, but he remained silent. His eyes moved back and forth rapidly, gears in his mind turning, searching for something to say.

He couldn't come up with a thing. Frustrated, Sherlock dropped his hands into his lap and resumed glaring. His glare intensified when Lestrade's face actually broke into a grin. This was actually kind of funny - after all, Sherlock was nineteen, and a legal adult, no matter how often Lestrade mentally referred to him as 'the kid.' Seeing a grown man sulk in a hospital bed in just the same matter as a five-year-old… it was hilarious, to say the least.

"Oh, for God's sake, Sherlock," Lestrade shook his head slowly, the smile still lingering. "Do you know how much hell you've put me through in the last four years? Without me even having a clue of who you were? And yes, it made things more interesting and exciting, but it wasn't exactly easy to deal with. I get it, this isn't easy either, but you can deal with it. Consider it payback for all of what you put me through. Hiding your identity, sneaking into my house - and yes, I do remember I invited you - calling me late at night, and getting yourself stabbed. This is what you have to suffer through in return. It's not like it's much, so don't sulk."

"Not sulking," came the irritated reply. "I'm not sulking, I'm thinking. What're you going to do to keep me here, then? I've escaped Mycroft's guards before, I can quite easily escape yours."

"Easy. First, I'm going to stay here," the words were out of his mouth before he realized what he was saying. Lestrade hesitated, slightly surprised by himself, but decided it wouldn't hurt to spend his time here. Make sure the kid would get healthy again. Realizing the room had fallen silently, he quickly recovered with, "I'm going to stay here with you, night and day, until you're able to be released. And if you escape, I swear I will have you in a cell by noon that day."

"What if I escape after noon?"

"Uh… what?"

"You said you'll have me in a cell by noon that day. What if I escape after then?"

Lestrade gave an exasperated sigh. "That's not the point, Sherlock! The point is you have to stay here. For your own good."

"I don't particularly care about my own good."

"I noticed. Fine, do it for me then. I don't know what to say. Just… stay here because you need to be."

"Fine." The reply was so quiet it was nearly inaudible, but the accompanying huff was definitely discernible. Lestrade started to smile again, letting go of Sherlock's wrist. The pale man glared and wrenched his wrist towards himself, keeping it protectively close to his chest. Lestrade snorted at this. Another childish behaviour, courtesy of Sherlock Holmes.

"Good, now you're supposed to be resting. Sleep or I'll call the nurses," he threatened lightly, but the kid obliged anyway, blue eyes slipping closed. Sherlock's face wiped clean of emotion and he was asleep within minutes. Lestrade smiled at this image. Yes, the boy looked vulnerable, but he also looked innocent. It also struck him that perhaps Sherlock was hoping he'd leave if he did what he was told, but his plans were quite the contrary. He wouldn't go back on his word. It might be frustrating to stay here (he could already imagine the long week or so ahead) but it would be worth it in the end, wouldn't it?

"Did you really think I was sleeping?" Curious words startled Lestrade back to reality. He rolled his eyes. Trust Sherlock to fake sleep and then wonder if he'd fallen for it. Maybe this was an experiment or something, a way to keep himself entertained.

"Yes." Honesty was the best policy, he supposed. Occasionally, anyway. Sherlock gave a noncommittal hum and shut his eyes again, though this time he didn't bother feigning sleep. Silence passed between them, stretching seconds into minutes and what seemed like hours. Neither slept, though both kept their eyes closed.

"Sherlock?" Lestrade finally spoke, opening his eyes to the world. The room was still relatively dark and he guessed it to be around 7:30. He'd spent the last half hour (or however long it had been) going over things in his mind, and one thing had stayed. Finally he'd simply decided to voice the question replaying itself in his mind. "Sherlock, when… when did you start doing drugs?"

Well. It wasn't the most tactful sentence in the world, but it did get the boy's attention. His eyes opened slowly to reveal a tired-looking blue hue. Quickly his neutral face morphed into a frown and he brought his hands together, tucking them under his chin in the same way he'd done earlier. "Why do you care to know?"

"Well, a few reasons…"

"You want me to get clean."

"I suppose."

Sherlock snorted. "My first time with drugs like this? When I was six."

Lestrade choked on air. It took him a good fifteen seconds to get enough breath back to speak again, but by then the damage had been done. His pause in conversation had been noted. "Six? You can't be serious. You've been addicted since you were six?"

"God no," Sherlock actually looked amuse. Damn him. "I said I first tried it when I was six. Not on purpose, of course, but I was always a bit of a curious child, as my mother would say. My father used to be a bit of an addict. A closet addict, I'm afraid. He got high in secret, when my mother wasn't around, but he couldn't care less about his sons." The monotone way in which he was speaking was just… creepy. "One day, a few weeks after my sixth birthday, he left one of the needles lying around, already full of the drugs he wanted to inject himself with. I can't remember exactly what those drugs were… but that's beside the point. Little me did like to experiment."

"And you… you used the needle on yourself? You've got to be kidding me," Lestrade shook his head in wonder. "A six-year-old? Playing with needles? Most kids hate them, Sherlock-"

"Not me, I suppose. I was raised to be better than that. It was always an accepted fact that pain was weakness, and a Holmes was not supposed to show weakness. I got over any fear of needles quickly. They weren't a match for me at all." He paused, staring off into something only he could see. After a moment, he added, "Almost killed me, of course, considering the concentration in the needle. But my mother found me not two minutes later and it was off to the hospital with us."

Lestrade nodded slowly. It still shocked him. He'd had calls over homeless, addicted children before, and really, it wasn't that bad, as long as they weren't beyond help. But somehow this was worse, far too shocking to know that this genius had been experimenting with substances for so long, that he'd first had an experience with the drugs at so young. And that there was no fear of needles, at all? That was just out of place. Odd.

"Before you ask, I didn't touch them again until I was sixteen," Sherlock informed him, merely shrugging. It was uncanny how he so easily talked about his drug habits, as if they were nothing to worry about at all. "No need to worry that somehow I was a six-year-old junkie. No, that came later. Ten years later, in fact."

"Ever thought about getting clean?" The words were out of his mouth before he realized what he was saying.

Sherlock chuckled. "Sure. I've thought about it before. And I've had my brother try to force it on me."

"But you haven't acted on it?"

"If I did, would I be sitting here with a report in my medical history stating I was brought in high on cocaine with a concussion and a stab wound? Honestly," he shook his head. "What would I do, anyway? The drugs sharpen my mind, they give me something more interesting to do than go through tedious social norms."

Well. He certainly didn't hold back any information on his drug use. Lestrade almost smiled at the irony of this. A druggie willingly going on about his drug history to a cop. "Well, you'll have to find something else to do, then, because you're going to get clean."

Sherlock snorted again. "You don't think my brother's tried that tactic before?"

"This isn't about your brother, this is about you," Lestrade argued back. "You're going to kill yourself with all these drugs. You'll simply have to deal and find something to do or you will quickly find yourself in a cell in Scotland Yard. And I will make sure the charges stick. I'll charge you a million times if I have to."

"You wouldn't."

"Try me."

"What do you suggest for me to do, then? Get a job? Boring. Get a 'normal' hobby? Boring. Get a-"

"Have you ever thought about joining Scotland Yard?" He mentally slapped himself. Really, one would think he'd actually think things through before speaking, but apparently not.

"And what, work with the idiots? With all due respect, Lestrade, you're probably the only one with even part of a brain, and you're still an idiot."

Well. He should be flattered enough that he'd been commented on with 'all due respect.' He stared at the kid, stared hard as he searched his mind for something Sherlock could do. In a few moments, his eyes widened and his face broke into a grin. "I have a proposition, then."

"Go on."

"You're quite better than me with crimes, aren't you? If you can get yourself clean, I can let you in on some of the cases. You could be like… like a detective, I suppose."

"You'll lose your position as soon as your superiors find out you're going to a 'private detective.'"

"Then give yourself another job title. I don't know… be… be a consulting detective, if that's what you want."

Sherlock regarded him carefully for a few moments before his face broke into a grin that mirrored Lestrade's. He nodded slowly, a new light in those intense eyes of his. And that signified it: the beginning of a long road to come. The beginning of everything, from Sherlock's days as a consulting detective to his years being clean.

He would struggle with the drugs for years, but Lestrade was there to help him through whenever he could. When Sherlock finally stopped using completely he was allowed in to help where he was needed and even where he wasn't - keeping the boy entertained was certainly one of Lestrade's priorities.

And many years later, when John Watson waltzed into their lives and changed Sherlock for good, when that selfsame man proclaimed that Lestrade knew the consulting detective better than Watson, he only inwardly smiled and said, "I've known him for five years and no, I don't."

Because that had been the years Sherlock had been clean. That had been the amount of years since he'd stopped referring to Sherlock as 'SH' or 'the boy' and started thinking of him as 'the man.' That had been how long they'd worked together and held a rather odd sort-of friendship.

In truth, they'd known each other well over ten years. But in Lestrade's mind, the moment the man stopped with his drugs the real Sherlock shined through, and that was the moment they truly knew one another.

No one would ever know of the phone calls late at night in those first three years, the disappearing act and shared accommodations in the fourth, nor the night in the hospital sometime in that mix. It would be forever in their minds, a constant reminder of what had happened and what could've been.

Before meeting Lestrade, Sherlock's life had been on a collision course. He surely wouldn't have survived more than a few hours after having been stabbed in the alley. In truth, he owed everything from his title to his life to Lestrade, but there was a tiny, unspoken agreement between them.

No matter what had happened, the past was the past, and it would remain there.

**A/N: Well, there we have it. The history of Lestrade and Sherlock's relationship. :) I hope you enjoyed this chapter and the story!**


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